Shamoosi

My Mother's name is Linda but I call her Shamoosi, a name I made up around 8th grade when adolescence and childhood were mixed up in an awkward knot, in that undefined space in which one holds onto yet rejects the infantile love that's been bestowed upon them. There is much evidence for the case that I am her daughter. Her eloquence, her intelligence, the way things have to be juust right have all wiggled their way into my psyche and way of doing things. But, at the same time, we are so different. Her style has rounded, polished edges, I am more mix and match. She is conservative, I am a ranting liberal by comparison. Sometimes I say things that make her lips hug together in shock.

Last night that facial expression was exacted by my proclamation that I will never wear a diamond. It's true, I have never seen my style naturally melding with something so shiny and in your face. Don't get me wrong, I like nice things, but of a different tonality. Because she is my Mother she pressed me on this declaration, telling me that I deserve nothing less. "I know," I said, "you taught me that. I know what I am worth, but I want something different." "Oh Hosanna," she said, "always pushing it." Being her daughter, would she expect anything less?

This morning I woke up, sauntered into the living room and caught a glimpse of something glistening back at me over the rim of my coffee cup. A ring, a black diamond ring, sitting on top of the heap of brass and silver jewelry I had relieved myself of the night before. I smiled, instantly knowing where it had come from. It's beautiful, more slate in color than opaque black, an oval shape set in a silver braided band. It was my Aunt Lois' she tells me, gifted to her and now gifted to me. "It looks vintage," she says, knowing her customer. "I'll take it," I happily relent.

Thank you, Shamoosi, I love you.